


Semantics

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Humor, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 15:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10440933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: The Housewarming. Molly was quite serious about it, firmly maintaining that to deny Mrs. Hudson the convivial gathering would be as churlish as anything Sherlock had done in his former life, the one where he’d been content, at best, to skate along in the guise of a high functioning sociopath, and at worst… well, that didn’t really bear discussion...





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Passing' prompt.
> 
>  
> 
> *****************************

 

The Housewarming. Molly was quite serious about it, firmly maintaining that to deny Mrs. Hudson the convivial gathering would be as churlish as anything Sherlock had done in his former life, the one where he’d been content, at best, to skate along in the guise of a high functioning sociopath, and at worst… well, that didn’t really bear discussion so soon after the tragedy and trauma they’d all been through in the last six months. What it boiled down to was that Molly could not be swayed by rational argument. 

It had briefly put him into something of a strop. 

A vast herd of people traipsing through his newly renovated sanctuary? _Touching_ things. And making _noise_. And generally just being _curious_. But... 

“My God! I’m turning into _Mycroft!"_  he exclaimed, suddenly horrified.    

And Molly’s eyes lit with laughter. “You mean the _Get Off My Lawn_ mindset of middle age?” 

Sherlock scowled at her.   

And of course it wasn’t only the completion of the work on his flat that would be celebrated. The whole building had sustained damage. Speedy’s had been closed for weeks, and even Mrs. Hudson had gotten a new kitchen out of the debacle. 

So Molly had kissed him and murmured very sympathetically, Hudders had brought him hot tea and a plate of bourbon creams, and then the two had proceeded to sit down at his new kitchen table (as yet unsullied by any element of scientific inquiry) to compile a guest list that seemed to include half the population of London. 

They also created an extensive and varied menu. Sherlock’s preferences played a significant role in this, and John had shown up in time to put in requests for himself and Rosie. Sherlock reflected that they would at least be well fed, though entertaining the bulk of his acquaintance _en masse_ would hardly inspire a hearty appetite. 

Yet, ultimately, the event had not been quite as severe a trial as he’d anticipated. The guests had drifted in and out over the course of a six hour open house, and were rarely too numerous for Sherlock’s liking. When the company did expand to impact Sherlock’s comfort zone, Molly would materialize beside him, the perfect hostess, deflecting unwanted attention with kindness, but surprising efficiency. She was Molly, but even more so, her newfound happiness and confidence merely enhancing the sweet, capable woman he’d known for so long. Sherlock found himself fascinated by this new aspect of his… his what? 

 _Girlfriend_ meant he was her _Boyfriend_ , and the terms were far too juvenile for either of them. _Lover_? _Inamorata_? True, but faintly unsavory and as such quite unacceptable, since he considered their intimate relations little less than a holy thing (and at certain points the name of God was invoked often enough to lend some credence to this view). _His Pathologist_ , her title for a number of years, failed to take into account their current situation. And _Fiancé,_ besides being almost as insipid as _Girlfriend_ , was putting the cart before the horse -- and possibly presumed too much. 

Assailed by this line of thought In the midst of the party, he found himself growing quiet and frowning as he watched her. It took a sharp poke of John’s elbow to bring him out of it. 

“Alright there, mate?” John’s brow and lip quirked. 

Sherlock looked down his nose at him, said, coldly, “Fine,” and wandered out to the kitchen to collect himself and, incidentally, another of Mrs. Hudson’s mince tarts.

 

*

 

Greg Lestrade had shown up with Hopkins early on. They were technically on duty and had to stick to tea, but they shared some of the details of an interesting case they were working, which pleased Sherlock. A great many NSY acquaintances began to pop in after that, including Anderson (who nudged Lestrade and said, “What did I tell you?” on observing Sherlock and Molly’s subtle but evident intimacy), and even Sally Donovan. 

Donovan hadn’t darkened Sherlock’s doorway in years, and certainly never in the name of friendship. She looked about, nodding approval of the changes, and then was introduced to Rosie Watson for the first time and became almost humanly enthralled. Rosie, cuddled against John’s shoulder in a dreamy, post-nap state, had smiled noncommittally around the thumb in her mouth, but then caught sight of Sherlock, who was standing off to the side, and instantly lit up. The little darling strained away from her father, chirping, “Unca!” and Sherlock, never able to resist that adorable spark of Mary’s fire, took her from John and grinned as she gently patted his cheeks with her tiny, chubby hands. 

“Another fan,” Donovan muttered with a roll of her eyes. But there was a genuine smile in them, as well. 

Bill Wiggins made a rather furtive appearance, shying away from those guests he recognized as police officers and lighting in the kitchen where he accepted a cup of tea from the tolerant Mrs. Hudson. “You’d better take some of these, too,” she said, eyeing him up and down and pressing a packet on him, a half dozen of her miniature Cornish pasties, still warm from the oven. He pocketed them with a word of thanks. Then some new guests arrived, and, with a nod to Sherlock, Bill took his leave, sidling crablike from the room. 

The new guests were Sherlock’s mother and father. 

Sherlock was seated in his chair, bouncing Rosie Watson on his knee when they arrived, and Mummy absolutely lit up at the sight. She came to him and said pointedly, “You look quite natural, dandling that baby. You might consider making arrangements to acquire one of your own. It would please me, and give you something to think about besides yourself.” 

Sherlock replied with facetious humility, “Yes, Mummy.” 

She stared at him, brows lifting. 

Sherlock exchanged a glance with his father, who turned to his wife, saying, “And that’s enough of that, don’t you think, my dear? Come, let’s say hello to Martha Hudson. I find it hard to believe she’s still willing to house our son, but she was always an intrepid creature.” 

Sherlock, remembering the manner in which Mrs. Hudson had escorted him to meet John on a certain day a few weeks ago, muttered, “Lord, you really have no idea.” 

His parents wandered out to the kitchen and lingered for the next few minutes, regaled with cups of John’s punch, the fruits of Mrs. Hudson’s prowess in cookery, and gossip. Yet all the while Sherlock felt sharp eyes upon him and, when Molly came over to speak to him, he deliberately gratified his mother (and, not incidentally, Molly) with an interaction that he knew would suggest nothing but good things to her knowing eye. After Molly took up Rosie and carried her off to be introduced to some of John’s friends from the clinic who’d just arrived, Sherlock rose from his chair and wandered toward his mother, joining the party in the kitchen. 

“Another of these, I think,” Sherlock said, picking up his fifth mince tart. “Hudders ordinarily makes them only for Christmas.” 

“I quite thought it _was_ Christmas,” his mother said quietly, her cheeks actually pinking as she looked at him in wonder. 

“Patience!” he said softly, with a sly smirk and a brief, one-armed hug. Her astonishment was such that, as planned, she was deprived of speech. 

And then Mycroft arrived, and she could only gape at this fresh miracle. 

It was the British Government twice over, for Mummy’s eldest was accompanied by Lady Smallwood, now a high ranking member of parliament, but formerly known as Alicia Hart, daughter of a family whose property was situated not many miles from Musgrave. The teenaged Miss Hart had several times served as babysitter to the Holmes offspring, much to ten-year-old Mycroft’s chagrin at the time. Apparently he’d recovered from his resentment. 

“Robbing the cradle, Allie?” Mummy asked by way of greeting, after Mycroft had withdrawn to consult with Mrs. Hudson on the availability of champagne flutes for the two bottles of Roederer Cristal he’d brought. 

Lady Smallwood seemed unperturbed. “Why? Do you object?” 

Mummy opened her mouth, shut it again, then said, “Alicia, you must be aware that I support anything that will conduce to my sons’ happiness and humanity.” 

Lady Smallwood nodded. “Yes. I thought as much. I think you would be pleased, were you fully aware of the situation.” 

Mummy arched a brow. “Should I be fully aware?” 

“Oh, no. That would hardly be discreet.” She smiled. “No one has called me Allie in years, it does take me back.” She directed a considering look at Sherlock. “You were still in nappies, I believe.” 

“Aaaand that’s my cue to depart,” he said, with a slight grimace. 

He ignored their amusement as best he could as he headed across the room to where Molly, still holding Rosie, was chatting with Mike Stamford and his wife. Mike looked up, beaming a greeting, and Molly turned to him, her beautiful eyes wide and happy -- and filled with love. 

A rush of emotion threatened to swamp Sherlock, but he mastered it, resisting the urge to kiss her, only setting a hand lightly at her waist as he held out the other to Stamford. “Good to see you, Mike. And is this Mrs. Stamford?” He looked the remarkably pretty little lady swiftly up and down. “You’re the mother of six? How can that be?” 

Mrs. Stamford displayed blushing gratification and not a little surprise at this. “Oh, yes,” she said, with a slight laugh. “They keep me young, you know.” 

“Evidently,” Sherlock said, and took the hand she was shyly holding out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He gave the hand a slight squeeze as he shook it. 

John came over then and took Rosie, and as Sherlock and Molly turned away in search of champagne, Mrs. Stamford was heard to say, “Why, he’s not at all as you’ve described, Michael! He’s a lovely gentleman!” 

Molly gave a slight snort of laughter and looked up at Sherlock. He smirked back at her complacently.

   

*

 

At nine on the dot, Sherlock gently but firmly chivied the remaining guests out the door and collapsed into his chair by the fire for a few minutes. Molly, who was not a mere guest, continued washing up, cheerily singing and swaying to whatever was coming from her earbuds as she did so. Sherlock sat watching her for a few minutes, but presently guilt set its spurs in his soul and he dragged himself up again. Mrs. Hudson had retreated to her bed to sleep off the effects of a surfeit of punch an hour since, so there was no other help available. 

“I’ll dry,” he said, picking up a towel. 

The singing and swaying came to an abrupt halt. Molly pulled out her earbuds and stared at him. “ _You’ll_ dry?” 

“How hard can it be?” he said, with excessive hauteur. 

She grinned. “I’m sure you’re fully capable. And always have been, in fact, though this may be the first time in living memory--” 

“ _Molly_ ,” he said, a warning in his voice. 

She raised her sudsy hands in surrender. “You’re right. One must not look a gift horse in the mouth.” She went back to her washing, and, presently, to her humming and swaying, too, though she did not replace the earbuds. A smile curved her lips as he worked beside her. 

When she was almost finished, she said to him, “Did you have a good time?” 

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm. 

She grinned. “I think you did. You just consider it beneath your dignity to admit it.” 

He sniffed. 

She went back to the last of the dishes, then drained the water and rinsed the sink. 

Finally, he said, “I didn’t have an entirely awful time.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she laughed, neatly folding the dishcloth and laying it aside, “You know you had a lovely time, just as we all did. All your friends and your family -- even Mycroft was smiling. And he brought that delicious champagne!” 

“Certainly that was the least he could do.” 

“And your mother and father are wonderful!” 

“Mmm.” He eyed Molly thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t consider an elopement, would you?” 

She turned to him, swiftly. “ _What?_ ” 

“I mean… it’s not the idea of a wedding, _per se_. Apparently I can tolerate a moderate crowd of friends and relations without losing my mind. But… the semantics.” 

She frowned. “Semantics?” 

“Molly, I’m approaching forty. I’ll be damned if I’ll be anyone’s _boyfriend_. And fiancé seems absurd, too.” 

“Sherlock, is this your idea of a proposal?” She looked almost amused. Almost. 

“No, of course not. I mean… I thought it was more or less a given. Don’t you want to marry me? It seemed to me… even with everything…” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly wondered if he, too, had imbibed too much punch. It had all made sense in his head, but somehow when spoken aloud… 

But Molly suddenly caught up his hand, then bent and placed a tender kiss on his fingers. Horrified, he tried to snatch it away, but she held it fast. 

“Molly, don’t,” he said, firmly. “If anyone’s hand is to be kissed it’s yours, not mine.” 

“Sherlock Holmes, I’ll kiss you _anywhere I please_. You owe me that, at the very least.” 

“Anywhere?” he said, provocatively. But his heart swelled, thinking of what he owed her. “I suppose. When you put it that way. It’s fortunate I can trust you not to abuse your power.” 

“Don’t be so sure of that,” she said, and drew him down for a kiss. 

He took her in his arms, and complied to her unspoken request, gently and tenderly at first, though passion claimed him soon enough. Everything he wanted… everything he needed. The phrase _grit on the lens_ came to him, and he shuddered at what he might have lost through that nonsense. He dragged his lips from hers and whispered against her ear, “I love you, Molly Hooper. Will you marry me?” 

She pulled a little away, with a joyous gasp -- or it might have been a chuff of laughter. There were tears in her eyes as she smiled up at him. “Yes. I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes.” 

His heart was like to float away. 

Then she added, “But must we elope? Just a _small_ wedding…” 

“A _Heart_ -Warming?” 

Perhaps his sanity and intellect had been more profoundly affected than he’d realized. 

But she only grinned, kissed his hand again, and said, “Precisely.”

 

~.~

 


End file.
